


Who They Are

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Case of Identity, Belonging Together, Confession, John Mourns, John Plays Detective, Love, M/M, Sherlock returns, Sherlock's Suicide, While Sherlock's Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 01:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13225671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: John’s not recovered from Sherlock’s suicide, but a random email request allows him to slip back into case solving. It’s not the same, though, without Sherlock, and John is not the only one who feels that way.





	1. The First Request

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. We've got quite a few stories, and we invite you to get lost in them. **To keep up with our new stories, we hope you'll subscribe.**
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and for being a great community!

John was sitting at the desk, his eyes out of focus as he looked at the blurry computer screen. Or rather, he didn't really look at it. He wasn't ready for this. After he came back from the war, it had taken him over a year to start writing the blog, and that was only because he’d accidentally  found something worth writing about. Now that reason was gone -- Sherlock was gone. And he was sitting here, six months later, wondering if he could just pour everything he was feeling into the blinking cursor. He rubbed his face hard and brought the screen back into focus. There was no sound, no blinking light, and yet his eyes were drawn up to the little envelope in the corner. 1. There was a small number 1 hovering over it. Someone had written a direct message. Weeks after Sherlock's -- what happened to Sherlock, when John had checked the site, it’d been bombarded with posts and comments from people -- sympathy and outrage -- so many that he was overwhelmed. But this, it was the first direct message and as he clicked on it he couldn't help his stomach dropping a bit, hoping . . .

 _Dr Watson,_  
_You may not remember me, but you and Mr Holmes helped my company a year ago with an embezzlement case. I now find myself in need your services for a new matter -- one that is both private and urgent._  
_I was sorry to hear about the loss of your partner, but I am writing to ask if you have now reopened for business._  
_Grayson Williams_

It wasn't Sherlock. It wasn't even coded or disguised. John even recognised the name. His first urge was to just delete the message. How could he reopen the business without Sherlock? Without Sherlock, there was no business. There was nothing. Maybe he should tell Williams that; in fact, how dare he assume John could just pick it up? He clicked the reply button, his fingers hovering over the keys. But he couldn’t do it.

Why?

John swallowed hard and looked around the sitting room. It was Sherlock's livelihood. Would he be honoring Sherlock to try it? He imagined Sherlock laughing at him, teasing him. Everyone knew John was nowhere near as skilled as Sherlock had been. But if it was something easy . . . maybe it would help him feel close to Sherlock again. He took a deep breath and moved his hands over the keyboard.

_Mr Williams,_  
_The business is not reopened, but if you could send me the details, I will do my best to look into the matter for you. I won't promise anything._  
_John Watson._

Mrs Hudson carried the post up the stairs and knocked gently on the door.

John turned and looked over, shutting the laptop before she saw the blog. "Hello."

“Hello,” she said, stepping over to give him a few envelopes. “Junk,” she said. She opened the curtains. “Shall I make us some tea?"

John winced a bit as the light came in. He nodded, rubbing the five o'clock shadow on his face self consciously. "Okay."

She moved into the kitchen and filled the kettle. “Have you been working there on the computer?” she asked then stopped and turned. “You’re not looking for a new flat, are you?”

"No," he said. "About the flat, I mean. I was just . . . browsing." He found he was nervous to reveal anything about the case. That was what Sherlock did. Besides, everyone would think he was pathetic for trying to solve something. But he wasn’t really going to try, not properly. It was just one thing, one case for an acquaintance.

“Good,” she said. She got the milk out of the fridge. “You’ve not got much food in there -- you are eating, right? You told me you’ve been eating.”

John glanced over and tried not to look guilty. "I am," he assured her.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mrs Hudson said. “I seem like a nag -- I’m not your mother. I’m your friend.” She brought the tea in. “You’ve been doing okay?” she asked as she sat down.

"Not really, but maybe soon," he said, offering her a small smile. "How are you?"

“I’m all right,” she said and took a sip of tea. “Have you been thinking about going back to work, though?” she asked softly.

John stood up and paced near the window. "They don't need me right now," he said.

“Maybe you need them?” she said. “It’s not the money . . . you know he left me some. It’s just . . . better than sitting in here all the time . . . remembering.”

John shook his head, coming back to his chair. "It's not busy enough. It's fine."

“And what about dating? Or just going out?” she asked. “Have you seen any friends?”

John looked up at her and sipped his tea. He didn't want to say it, but he knew she wouldn't go if he didn't talk. "I don't want to."

She looked down into her cup as she took another sip of tea. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You know I worry . . . that’s all this is. I just . . . worry.”

"I know. It's just . . . it's only just happened . . ." he said quietly.

“There’s no rules about grieving, John,” she said. “But it has been six months . . . he wouldn’t have wanted this. I know he didn’t understand love, I know he didn’t understand the grief that would come . . . but we have to figure out a way to live again.”

"We don't know anything about what he wanted," John said. "He never said . . . never spoke about stuff like that."

“That’s a lie, John Watson,” she said. “We do know what he wanted even if he never told us  directly."

John flushed lightly and sipped his tea. "Just a bit more time," he said.

“Whatever you need,” Mrs Hudson said. She finished her tea and then stood up. “Do you want me to help you tidy up?”

"No, I'll do it later," he said. "Thank you," he added.

She went over and gave him a little hug. “Come down for dinner this week, okay?”

John nodded. "I will."

She gave him one more squeeze and then left.

As soon as Mrs Hudson walked out of the room John stood and went back to the computer. He refreshed the blog and there was a reply, the details from Williams. He read the message  carefully and then went to find his notes from the first case they worked on. He looked at everyone they’d spoken to before and then went back to the computer to investigate. Suddenly, he felt a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in a long time. He needed to get dressed, shower and clean himself up a bit. He rubbed his face again. He'd have to shave.

When he came back downstairs an hour later, John almost felt like a whole new person. He tried not to focus on the feeling -- it made him feel a bit guilty if he was honest, but he couldn't go out into the world the way he looked before. He grabbed his coat and snuck out of the flat. He loved her, but he didn't need Mrs Hudson fussing over him. He hailed a cab and as soon as he arrived, he started interviewing. He jotted down notes and looked for clues like Sherlock used to, but he couldn't see things the way he had. If he solved this, it’d be based on the facts. After he went to talk to a couple employees, took a break for lunch, and picked up with an assistant and finally Williams himself.

When John got back to the flat, he spread out his notes on the table and looked at everything together. He couldn't see it -- Sherlock would have picked out the culprit right away, some small sign that they had more money than they were showing, that they were guilty. He rubbed his temples and kept looking over the notes until it was late. He put it all away before bed, not wanting to risk Mrs Hudson seeing if she came up in the morning.

When he got up, he replayed his interviews in his head and tried to pick out anything suspicious. In the end he chose at random. He got dressed and went out to follow the partner. Mostly he was in the office and John waited outside at a small cafe, keeping an eye on the door. When the man left, John followed. The man took a long way around to the bank where John followed but tried to keep a good distance back. Did he look nervous? John moved closer. He handed over an envelope full of cheques, joking about how well business was. It was just client money -- nothing suspicious. He must have just wanted a walk. John left feeling more frustrated than ever. That was until when he saw the assistant. She crossed the street and waited near the bank door. John crossed again and turned quickly to avoid being seen. The partner saw the assistant and tugged her into the nearby alley. John inched towards the mouth of it to listen.

She complained about her wasted skills, and it sounded like this was not the first time they’d had this conversation. He promised her it wouldn't be much longer, that if the code she had written was working properly they would have more than enough money before they knew it. She offered to rewrite it, to siphon even more but he said no. John turned and hurried off before they came out and saw him. His next stop was Williams who was pleased with John’s work.

But there had been no skill, not like Sherlock. It was sheer chance that John figured it out. The point was that it was done, and he had found the answer.

Later that night, while he was having dinner with Mrs. Hudson, he got a text from Williams. He had paid for a more extensive background check than the company's usual pre-employment one and found a whole secret life to his assistant. She was arrested, along with his partner, and the money was going to be distributed back where it was supposed to be from the beginning. He enjoyed his meal with a little more gusto after that, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's curious looks. She didn't ask, but she looked happy as well. After she went home for the night, John found himself at the computer, staring at the blog again. He was supposed to write about what happened to him, to get over his trauma. It couldn't hurt to write this up like old times -- it was only one story about helping a friend. That was all. He licked his lips and started typing slowly. 

**________________________________________**

Sherlock was alone on a train. He had “cleaned up” a section of Moriarty’s network and was moving on to another. As Mycroft had instructed. He’d spent the last six month doing as Mycroft had instructed. Of course he enjoyed the challenge, but he was also tired. His body was thinner and weaker. His mind was still as strong, but his heart ached. It’d taken him a little while to realise what was happening, but eventually he knew what was happening: he was missing London, he was missing the flat, he was missing John. He told his brother he was ready to go home.

But Mycroft had said, “Not yet.”

Sherlock had been staring out the window, letting the landscape blaze across his eyes until they glazed over and closed and he’d fallen asleep. He woke with a start when the train jerked, and Sherlock’s hand immediately went to his neck, which now burned from the awkward angle as he’d slept.

He opened his laptop and re-read the message from Mycroft about where he was headed and what he was required to do. Then he read the newspaper and did a crossword. Finally he opened John’s blog. Their blog. The story of Sherlock and John. He’d read it through at least once a week ever since he’d left. He liked remembering.

Obviously he saw John’s new post. He read it. He remembered Williams and the previous case and was quite pleased to see that John had solved the case. He smiled. And then he stopped smiling and read it again.

John was solving cases without him. He re-read the whole blog again, but that new post distracted him -- suddenly the whole blog was changed. It wasn’t their story anymore. He closed the laptop and started out the window again. His eyes were watering, and he closed them.


	2. The Business Grows

The new case brought much more attention than John expected. People sent messages accusing him of hiding Sherlock, demanding to know where he was or if he was really still alive. John ignored those messages, along with the pang of hurt they brought with them. He knew the conspiracies out there -- those initial comments had included wild stories about how Sherlock actually survived and where he might be hiding. He knew how those people felt -- desperate, hopeful, wanting to believe it wasn't all for nothing. He’d never replied, never indulged them. It was too hard. But now John saw different messages. Praise for the new story, and then requests for more. People were writing to him for cases, asking him solve more cases for them. He couldn't believe this.

He hesitated. He bit his lip and clicked them open, reading through them. What was he doing? He couldn't just be a detective without Sherlock. He wasn’t the detective, he was the blogger. That’s who they were.

Or who they had been.

The thing for Williams wasn’t much, but John had to admit it had been fun. It had been the closest he had come to feeling normal again. He picked one message at random, a man suspecting his wife of cheating. John wrote him for details, taking notes when he got the reply. He skipped breakfast and went out to see what he could find. It didn't take long to find the wife, and he was happy to report back that she was not cheating, but planning a surprise party. It wasn't the most exciting case but he wrote it up anyway. Of course, this didn’t feel the same, but it felt better than anything from the last six months.

**________________________________________**

Sherlock was lying on the floor in a small cupboard. It was uncomfortable but would only be for a few more hours until someone was sent to pick him up. His back hurt.

He went away in his head, remembering. He remembered meeting John, the first day came to the flat, their dinners at Angelo’s, their cases. He came back from his head when there was a knock on the door. Sherlock waited for the password and then unlocked the door. A man in black leathers nodded for Sherlock to follow him. The man climbed onto a motorcycle. Sherlock strapped his bag over his shoulders and climbed onto the back of the bike.

After an hour, the biker dropped him off at a small hotel. Neither man spoke. Sherlock went inside. The man at the desk said, “Mr Smith, we’ve been expecting you.” He handed Sherlock a key and nodded down a hallway.

Sherlock found his room and unlocked the door. His things were on the bed. He moved them to the floor and dropped his bag. He immediately went into the bathroom and took a hot shower. He walked naked to the bed, climbed in and fell asleep.

When he woke up, the room was dark. He got up and grabbed his laptop, bringing it to the bed. He read a message from Mycroft to find out where he was and what was next. He could do this, and it maybe it would mean he could go home. Or to what had been home.

Then he opened up their blog. John had solved another case.

He read the two new posts over and over, looking for some clue -- some message for Sherlock. But there was nothing. Nothing that Sherlock could see. He double checked his security and then returned to the blog. He clicked the comment box and wrote _I am impressed._

He stared at the words. He glanced at the clock and realised it was likely that as soon as he sent them, John would see them. Only a few seconds would pass between the thought moving from Sherlock’s head to John’s.

He hit Send.

John left the computer open now, checking the blog every time he happened to pass. The count was slowly going up -- only a couple new readers but he felt a spike of excitement regardless. People were sending cases through, but John didn't take all of them. He wanted to start slow. He didn't even know if he wanted to properly 'start'. He wasn't a detective. In fact, at this moment, he didn’t even know what he was. This was just passing some time. He wanted to acknowledge every comment that came through, though, and he noticed the newest one.

_Thank you.  
_

He resisted downplaying it. Compared to what Sherlock had done these cases were child's play, but he didn't want to keep putting himself down every time. It was bound to get old. So he’d accepted the compliment and left it at that.

Sherlock had set the laptop on the bed and was standing by the window smoking. The next few days should be safer but busy. When he got back into bed, he looked at the blog again and saw John’s reply.

It was like a conversation. A short one and of course John didn’t know it was him, but still it felt good. It felt real. God, Sherlock missed John.

**________________________________________**

Over the next week John worked on small cases -- cheating spouses, missing money, and once he overstretched himself to work a suspected murder, but it ended up being a faked death and not a very well thought out one at that. He posted all of them, writing each one out like a story the way he used to. Mrs Hudson seemed to be more cheerful when she visited, though she never asked too many questions as if pointing it out would make it all go away.

Sherlock was still in the hotel a week later, which is not what he wanted but better than being elsewhere. He was watching John’s posts -- feeling a mixture of excitement and sadness each time a new one appeared. The cases weren’t all that interesting, but if he closed his eyes, he could picture John working on them and that smile that came over his face when he figured something out. Sherlock missed seeing that smile.

He wondered how John had figured out the truth about their last day together. Afterwards, Sherlock had asked Mycroft about John, whose answers were deliberately cryptic. “He watched you fall” was something Sherlock was already well aware of. When the new posts began appearing, Sherlock knew John would assume he’d be reading them and he kept looking for little private references, but there were none. Obviously, John must know the truth. He’d understand the importance of keeping quiet and thus wouldn’t be dropping hints on their blog.

Sherlock had got back from a day of going through files in a locked room, all alone, and opened his laptop to read the newest post. It mentioned Angelo’s, and Sherlock was suddenly overcome with homesickness. He opened up his secure messenger and sent his brother a message.

_Soon?_

He waited for the reply.

_When it’s time._

_It’s time soon. He needs me._

He carried his laptop to the window, lighting a cigarette while he waited.

_You’re dead to him._

Sherlock stared at the words with such a fury.

_Tell him._

_No._  
  
_Send me home._

_No._

This was pointless and Sherlock knew it. He crushed the cigarette out and slammed his body against the bed. He hated his brother and Moriarty. They had caused all this. They had caused him to lie to John. But John didn’t know that. John thought he was dead.

But why was John re-opening their business if he thought Sherlock was dead? That didn’t seem right -- six months later and it’s back to business as usual for John, except this time there’s no actual detective doing the work. That didn’t seem right, but it appears that’s what was happening.

None of this seemed right actually, but it all had happened.

He went back to the blog and re-read every single post and comment. Then he clicked “Contact Us” and typed.

_You’re solving cases again? Is Holmes back?_

and hit Send before he had a chance to doubt his choice.

John checked the blog. He sat at the computer with his tea and looked through the messages, pausing on the last one. He stared at it for a long moment before replying.

_No. Sherlock is gone. No one can come back from the dead.  
_

Sherlock stared at the message. John really didn’t know. So why was he so quick to get back to normal if his business partner -- his friend -- was dead? Sherlock had assured there was money for the flat so it couldn’t be that. He didn’t know what to think. So he wrote.

_Just as well. I met him. He was bothersome despite his intellect._

John's brows furrowed, anger bubbling in his stomach.

_If you have a case, then send it along. If not, don't come into my inbox to insult my friend.  
_

Sherlock didn’t know quite how to feel about that response -- it was in his defense, yes, but it was closing down the only communication they’d had for months. He tried to think clearly for a moment before typing.

_I do have a case._  
  
John hesitated. Did he want to help this person, coming around to insult Sherlock? But Sherlock wouldn't have cared about that -- only how interesting the case was. John took a deep breath.

_Okay. What is it?_

Sherlock set the laptop down on the bed. He hadn’t thought this out. He got up and moved to the window for another cigarette. This was probably a stupid idea. Clearly, Sherlock had experience lying, even lying to John, but somehow this felt different and he wondered if he could pull it off. He also knew Mycroft would be furious. Yet, how could he pass up this chance to communicate -- to know for sure that John was all right? He had to think of something. He needed to focus on coming up with a case. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but all he could see was John’s face. He opened them again and thought some more. _  
_

_I am having doubts my relationship. I’m not sure I know the truth. Do you think this is something you could work on?_

_What kind of things are you worried about? What would I be investigating?  
_

The story began to form in Sherlock’s head.

_This is quite embarrassing, but we haven’t actually met in person. We’ve been corresponding online for about a year, and I felt like we were getting to know each other well, which is why I agreed to finally meet him for a week’s holiday in France. However, his plans changed and now I’m here alone waiting, and I’m having second thoughts._

_I'm sorry to hear that. I can look for you. Can you send me some more information about him?  
_

_I’ll have to put together and send it to you. What will you charge?_

_I don't do it for that. No charge._

Sherlock frowned. What was John talking about?

_Then why are you doing it?_

_I've lost someone and this helps me feel closer to them. Helps me feel less lost._

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel his eyes beginning to well.

_I’ll be in touch._


	3. The New Case

In the morning, John checked the blog and found the information about his new case. He started his research. The internet wasn't much help; he found the online profile but nothing else about the man. He saved the photos and searched for them individually and found the same face in stock photos. That wasn't a good sign, but maybe he was too shy to use his own face. John would  have to find out of any more pictures were exchanged besides these. For now he would give him the benefit of the doubt.

Sherlock’s research kept him very busy which was good because -- while he didn’t regret reaching out to John -- he was aware that the temptation to do it again and again was great. He’d thought about John every day he’d been gone, missing him and looking forward to seeing him again. But through all those times, he’d convinced himself that John knew what was happening and why. He’d probably been irritated with Sherlock, but ultimately he’d have understood. Now Sherlock knew things weren’t that simple.

Sherlock wanted to stop Moriarty. He’d been obsessed with stopping him; he’d wanted to know everything and then stop everything. Those desires had not left Sherlock. But now, knowing that doing all this was also hurting John, things felt even more urgent. He threw himself into the work, knowing that the sooner he found what Mycroft was looking for, the sooner Sherlock could end this all and go home.

Unfortunately, though, just like all the stops on Sherlock’s trip, success here only meant an announcement from his brother about where he would head next. Sherlock had just read the message and knew he’d be packing up and leaving the hotel in the morning. He had no details if his next base would be as comfortable as this one had been. He took a bath and then got into the bed, opening up the laptop. There wasn’t much change on the blog. He sent John a new message.

_Any progress?_

_I'm working on it. I wanted to ask you, have you exchanged any other photos besides the ones on the dating site?_

Sherlock paused to think -- he didn’t want to raise suspicions, but he obviously didn’t have any photos to send.

_I’m afraid not. We did speak once, though, so I know he’s real. I suppose this all sounds stupid to you._

_It doesn't sound stupid at all. I am just asking to help with my investigation.  
_

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined John sitting on the sofa, his computer on his lap, the television on. Is that what he was doing? He realised he’d just been assuming that everything about John’s life had stayed the same, but now he wasn’t certain.

_I feel bad wasting your time with such a ridiculous circumstance._

_My time isn't being wasted if this is important to you. We'll figure it out. The only thing is the photos he's using aren't real._

Sherlock smiled. He should’ve made things a bit more challenging.

_Perhaps he is insecure about his looks._

_I thought the same thing. Don’t worry. I'll find out what's happening._

_Thank you. I feel quite isolated here, and I really appreciate what you’re doing for me._

Sherlock stared at the message. It was entirely true.

_I don't mind helping. I always liked it.  
_

_I think perhaps you were the real brains behind Holmes from the very beginning. Regardless, I’m glad I got in touch. I look forward to your next update._

Sherlock closed the laptop and lay back on the bed. He shut his eyes and remembered.

He opened his eyes when he heard a noise from his computer. He saw a message from Mycroft.

_Get packed. You’re moving._

Immediately Sherlock was back in the present, but he felt he had to ask.

_Home?_

_No._

_Soon?_  
  
_Possibly._

Sherlock knew that was as good as he was going to get from his brother, so he focused on that as he packed his things.

**________________________________________**

The next day, John reached out to the dating site, but they couldn't release any information without a warrant but even if he got one, there were no strict rules about who could sign up. The site was free so there were no credit records and no proof anyone was who they said they were. John was feeling worse and worse about this.

It’d been a few days since he’d interacted with the client, so he sent a quick message to say he was still working.

Sherlock hadn’t had internet access for a while. He missed John even more -- it was stupid, of course, because John didn’t know it was Sherlock behind those messages, but Sherlock did and the conversations were comforting even though their subject matter was imaginary. On the train, he took out paper and began writing John a letter. He didn’t mention anything about being gone or what he was doing while gone. Instead he wrote about his favourite memories and how John was always in them.

When he was finally settled into his new base and had started this phase of Mycroft’s master plan, he got the chance to check in with John. He sent him a document with some new details he’d made up, some were purely random, others inspired by people he’d known as a child. Hopefully, this would keep John busy and still interested in communicating with him.

John worked with the new information, but after a while he had no choice to accept that this guy did not exist. He didn’t know who had been communicating with the client, but the name and face and career had all been lies, which only meant the promise of a future together had been as well. John sat at the computer and typed out his message. 

_Hello. I hope you're doing well. I have to tell you the man you thought you loved doesn’t exist.. I don't know who made that profile or who you've been talking to, but I do know that what you thought was real wasn’t. I’m sorry. I know this hurts._

He heard nothing back that night or the next day. Fair enough -- perhaps the client was either done with it. Or maybe he didn’t want to believe it. John understood that impulse.


	4. A Change

When Sherlock woke up, he had no idea what time it was. He wasn’t even sure what day it was. He tried hard to concentrate and remembered Mycroft had said something about danger. Sherlock must have been relocated once again. This time he was being held in a jail as a prisoner -- unpleasant, he could imagine his brother saying, but safe. He had a vague sense of being drugged upon his arrival here, which felt more than unpleasant. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but more importantly he wasn’t sure how long he’d have to stay.

He stood up from the bench and moved to the bars to try to get a sense of the building. He heard voices speaking -- it sounded like a Slavic language -- but they were coming from a distance. He must be in a safe house. He wasn’t sure if there were other cells or other men in those cells.

“и неед хелп,” he said aloud.

But there was no reply.

He sat back down on the bench, and suddenly realised his whole body was in pain. Something had happened to him -- this was not the pain of sleeping on a bench. He closed his eyes, but all he could remember was his brother and the word danger. Had there been danger or had Mycroft got him out in time?

Suddenly the voices were louder, and he heard the sharp slam of a door. Two men approached his cell, but Sherlock did not have the strength the stand up.

“I will telephone your brother,” the man said with a heavy accent. “He will come.”

Sherlock said nothing.

After picking him up, Mycroft had spent the drive from the prison to a hotel berating Sherlock, but doing so quite vaguely. Sherlock knew what this meant -- whatever had happened had not actually been his fault, but Mycroft’s. His brother responded to feelings of guilt by blaming someone else. He had also stayed silent on the specifics of what had actually happened to Sherlock. This was fine -- at the moment, Sherlock didn’t really even want to know. He just wanted to go home. Eventually, Mycroft confirmed that Sherlock would get his wish.

At the hotel, Sherlock spent two hours alone in the bathroom. He stripped himself of his dirty clothes and took a hot bath. He closed his eyes and tried to remember; unfortunately, some details did reveal themselves and Sherlock knew the pain would be with him for quite some time. When he eventually got out, he inspected his naked body in the mirror. There were marks and bruises on his back. He knew there was probably worse damage under the skin.

When he emerged, his brother said, “You’ll need to see a doctor.”

“John’s a doctor,” Sherlock said.

“Relevancy?”

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” Sherlock said. “John can help with everything else.”

Mycroft looked over at his brother. “Have you been in touch with Dr Watson?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Then I may have some surprising news for you,” Mycroft said. “John’s moved on -- he won’t be at Baker Street waiting to tend your wounds. He has no reason to believe you are alive. Surely you remember his watching you fake your death?”

The comment stung Sherlock, of course. It was meant to. But Sherlock did not rise to his brother’s words. Because Sherlock knew John better than Mycroft did. And John knew Sherlock. Yes, his return would shock John, but John would forgive him.

When no comment came from his brother, Mycroft stood up. “Get dressed,” he said, motioning to a clean set of clothes he’d set on the bed. “I need to make some arrangements.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and moved to the door. “Do not leave, do not do anything stupid,” he said. “Just -- get dressed and I’ll be back momentarily.”

Sherlock stood for a few moments in the quiet room. He was just glad to be going home. He got himself dressed and looked in the mirror. His clothes covered the worst of his injuries, which he was glad for. He looked around for his bag, hoping his brother had saved it. He found it and pulled out his computer. It was locked, but eventually Sherlock figured out the new password and immediately checked for a message from John. He wasn’t sure if it was safe to respond so he just read through the posts, feeling more excited with every memory.

When Mycroft returned, he immediately said, “You’ve unlocked it?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, now lying on the bed, the computer on his lap.

“Have you done anything? Sent anything?”

Sherlock looked at his brother. “I may be injured and useless to you now,” he said. “But I’m not an idiot. Is it safe?”

Mycroft moved over and sat down at the table. “Obviously,” he said. “What are your intentions?” he asked casually, as if he wasn’t actually interested.

“No specific plans,” Sherlock said, equally casually. “I just wanted to be sure.” He quickly opened a message and typed,

_Thank you. In touch soon._

He closed the laptop and asked, “When do we leave?”

“In a few hours,” Mycroft said, now reading papers he’d pulled from his case. “You should sleep,” he said. “Unless you think there’s something wrong with your head . . . just sleep unless you think it’ll kill you.”

Sherlock set the computer on the floor, delicately turned on his side and closed his eyes.

**________________________________________**

“Get up,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his brother looming over him.

“Home?” Sherlock asked.

“London,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock smiled.

However, Mycroft’s distinction was more important than Sherlock had realised. From the airport, they went straight to Mycroft’s flat where Sherlock was confined again until Mycroft “got things in order.” At this point, Sherlock wasn’t interested in details. He wanted to go home. Yet he knew from his brother’s voice that the details were important, so he knew the rules had to be obeyed. 

He’d been seen by a doctor who’d confirmed that no bones had been broken. He’d been told to rest and had been given painkillers, which Mycroft had confiscated.

All he wanted to do was go to Baker Street. He just wanted to be home. Being with John would make the injuries irrelevant. John would help with everything that needed to be sorted. Hopefully.

But the time wasn’t right yet. So he’d gone back to the messages.

_I am sorry for the delay. I do appreciate your work in trying to find him. I also appreciate your honesty. However, I am not sure I can accept your findings._

John was pleased when he saw the message. He’d been working on other cases, but had still wondered what had happened to the client.

_I know it's hard to hear._

_I have spent some time thinking about what you said and what I’ve felt. He must exist. How could I care about someone who doesn’t exist?_

_People are good at lying. It's a terrible truth that unfortunately results on things like this._

_But not all people lie for bad reasons. Maybe he had a good one._

_But whatever the reason is, he's lied and he's disappeared. I think it would be best for you to move on. I know it's hard, but it would be best for you._

_Is that what you would do?_

_Waiting around for someone who's not coming back is not good. It's not healthy. Unfortunately I know from experience but aren't doctor's always hypocrites? You deserve someone to make you happy._

_He made me happy._

_I know it's going to be hard. I'm sorry._

_I’m not going to give up._

Sherlock stared at the cursor and then added.

_Why did you?_

John blinked at the reply.

_He died. I watched him die and there's nothing else I can do. I have no choice but to go on._

_I’m sorry_

That’s what Sherlock wanted to say. But instead he added:

_I’m sorry for upsetting you -- I guess I was trying to convince you as you were trying to convince me._

John leaned back in his seat, his eyes burning as he stared at the screen.

_I hope you find out the truth and you can be happy._

_I hope the same for you. When I get back to London, I can pay you for your work._

_You don't have to pay me._

_Your time is valuable, and you’ve helped me in ways you do not know. I hope to at least see you to thank you when I return._

_If you insist, I don't mind that._

Sherlock smiled. He hoped John meant that.

When John didn't hear anything back right away, he closed the computer and went to make himself something to eat. He wasn't sure if he was going to type this client’s case up at all. It wasn't his best work. For a second he smiled, remembering Sherlock being upset when John posted his unsolved ones as well. The smile faded just as quickly as he looked around the flat and felt an ache in his chest. The client’s hope brought back a feeling of emptiness.

Sherlock continued obeying Mycroft, trying his best to trust his brother. He’d made it clear to Mycroft that Baker Street was where he wanted to be, and despite his brother’s attempts, Sherlock was not going to change his mind. Eventually Mycroft seemed to accept that, but made him promise to lay low until the time was right.

Sherlock was trying to be patient. He stayed in Mycroft’s flat, read the news and checked John’s blog. He made no phone calls, sent no texts, and stopped sending any messages online. It was incredibly difficult, but he hoped his brother would soon set him free.

Finally, Mycroft had news. “I’ve spoken to Mrs Hudson,” he told Sherlock. “With her advanced age . . . I did not want her finding out in any other way.”

“Her reaction?”

“Surprised and then furious.”

Sherlock smiled. “And John? I know you must have spoken to her about John,” he said.

“Doctor Watson will be more complicated, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “But I think you must know that by now.”

There was nothing more infuriating than his brother being right, but Sherlock knew he was. “What . . . can I do?” he asked.

“Give me another day to decide,” Mycroft said and left the room.

Suddenly, Sherlock was overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure he could survive another day.


	5. Sherlock Makes A Move

Sherlock got his phone and sent Mrs Hudson a text.

_I need a favour._

_Who is this?_  
  
_It’s me._

There was a long pause.

_I’m too angry at you._

Sherlock started to type, but another message came through.

_What do you need?_

Sherlock smiled.

_Please tell John he had a client stop by to drop off payment for his services. If it comes up, feel free to tell him the client was handsome._

For a second, Sherlock questioned himself, but then he hit Send. There was no turning back now. A few minutes passed before she responded.

_Are you coming home?_

_I hope so. Is he all right?_

_He still misses you._

_I still miss him._

Sherlock’s eyes were going wet, so he quickly sent another.

_I’ll be in touch. SH_

He stood up and went to the window to look out at London while he waited.

**________________________________________**

John was starting to doze on the sofa when Mrs. Hudson came up. Something was off about her, but John couldn't place it. She wouldn't meet his gaze properly. "John? A client stopped by to drop off a payment."

"A payment? Who was it?" he asked.

"Didn't say but they . . . he was handsome," she said.

John's brows furrowed. "Did he say from which case?"

She shook her head, still not looking at him properly. He thought back through his cases and realised who it must be. "Okay, thank you," he said.

"John, I'm glad you picked up these cases. I think he'd like that."

John looked over at her and shrugged. "Maybe. I think he would call me an idiot in some disguised way and point out everything I missed." He smiled softly.

"Maybe," she smiled. She turned and left and John went to the computer.

_Hello. You really don’t need to send a payment, I hardly did anything for you.  
_

Sherlock’s phone shook in his hand. Finally, he thought.

_That’s where you are wrong. You’ve done a great deal for me, and I wanted to show my appreciation._

_I don’t feel I have, but thank you for saying that. I hope you can find what you're looking for._

Sherlock slipped on his coat.

_I have._

_Has he been in contact again?_

_Yes. I told you waiting was worth it._

_Well, I'm glad it worked out for you. I'm sorry I doubted it.  
_

_Perhaps it should make you question other things you think you are sure of._

_Our situations are not the same, I've already explained that. Holmes is dead and I watched it._

Sherlock’s face stung as the words and cold air hit him.

_I just meant in general._

John’s face flushed with embarrassment.

_Right, sorry. I hope he treats you better this time._

_The whole thing has just been so unusual -- perhaps more patience was all that was needed. Now that I know the circumstances, while I obviously wish things had gone differently, I understand, and we both want us to go back to how we were. Do you think that’s foolish?_

_It's not foolish if he's being honest with you and promises to do better this time._

_We both promise to do better, have more patience and be more open. I’m far from an expert on these matters so I don’t know how realistic it is to have confidence. However, I do. I am just  grateful for the chance for both of us to try again because what we had made me happier than I’ve ever been. I hope you get a chance to try again, John Watson, in whatever way works to make you happy._

John stared at the message, but wasn’t sure what to write in response to that.

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and handed the driver some money. He got out, unlocked the door to Baker Street and moved quickly up the stairs. He took a deep breath and stepped inside the flat.

John was on the sofa with his computer -- a scene Sherlock had witnessed so many times before but it had never looked so beautiful.

“Give me another chance, John,” he said. “Tell me what to do so that we can be happy again.”


	6. Baker Street

John looked up and was sure he was hallucinating. He pushed the computer onto the sofa and stood slowly. "How . . . you . . ." He started shaking his head. "I saw you . . . "

“I know, John,” Sherlock said softly. He stood still, not moving despite the urge to. “You had to . . . you were all at risk . . . so it had to look real. But it wasn’t.”

"How could you . . . all this time," John said, moving closer to him. "Do you know what it's been like? What I've been through?"

Sherlock’s eyes dropped. “No,” he said. “I thought eventually you would know . . . that you’d assume or that maybe he’d tell you . . . but now I know how you suffered . . .” He took one step closer and stopped.

John almost stepped back, just a shift. He softly repeated Sherlock’s words, not sure what to make of them. Suddenly, he remembered a line from the messages -- about reconsidering things he thought were true. "Was that you in the blog? The last case?"

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He looked down again. “When I realised you didn’t know . . . it was hard enough missing you but then . . . I had to . . . do something to reach you.”

John stared at him. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't process this. He closed the space between them and hugged Sherlock, burying his face in his shoulder. 

Sherlock’s arms went around John’s back. “Forgive me,” he whispered into John’s ear.

John could hardly breathe. "I missed you so much . . ."

Sherlock’s head instinctively nodded against John’s. “I missed you,” he exhaled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked.

“It had to seem real, and he knew -- everyone knew -- that only your acceptance would be convincing,” Sherlock admitted. “I’m so sorry you had to be hurt.”

"Are you leaving again?" John asked. 

“No,” Sherlock said. “I want to come home . . . if you’ll let me know.”

John nodded against his shoulder. "I don't . . . I can't lose you again, Sherlock."

“I should have told you what you mean to me, John,” Sherlock said. “Maybe then you’d have known the truth, that’d I never leave you . . . like that.”

John looked up slowly. "What would you have told me?"

“How important you are,” Sherlock said, his voice still a whisper. “How you’re everything . . .”

"Everything what?" He asked softly.

“Everything,” Sherlock said. “To me, you are everything -- my partner, my friend, the only one . . . I want to be around.”

John nodded. "I should tell you something too," he said. "Something I should have said before."

Sherlock looked over. “You can say whatever you need to say, John,” he said.

"I just . . . ." he said.

Sherlock felt confused. He was so good at reading John, but in this moment, he had literally no idea what John was going to say.

John looked down. "Love. I . . . I loved you.”

“I loved you too,’ Sherlock said. He moved over toward the sofa and paused before he sat down. “I didn’t know it . . . I wasn’t expecting it. . . but being away from you made me understand.” He looked over but couldn’t quite meet John’s eyes. “Like I said in the messages . . . you made me happier than I’ve ever been." 

"I've regretted not saying it before you . . . left.”

“I regret so many things, John,” Sherlock said and suddenly he burst into tears, burying his face in his hands.  “Of course, I loved you -- of course, I love you still,” Sherlock said. “I have missed you so much . . .”

They stayed close together until Sherlock calmed down. After a few minutes, he said, “I suppose a lot has changed.”

John nodded. "We can't pretend it hasn't happened."

“I know that,” Sherlock said. “I just mean . . . here . . . might be different. I told myself it wouldn’t -- that when I got home everything and everyone would be the same, but that’s probably not the case.”

"No. Things have changed.”

Sherlock moved a little away. “I know your life has been interrupted and you’ve suffered, but my life was interrupted as well . . . I don’t know how to be here now . . . who I am, I guess.” He wiped his hands over his face and stood up abruptly. “Tea?” he asked, trying to change the subject as he moved into the kitchen. 

John followed him. “Tell me what you've been doing while you've been away."

“Finding his people,” Sherlock said, keeping his back to John.

“Are you all right?” John asked. He was still processing his own feelings, but was aware of the danger Sherlock might have faced.

Sherlock poured the tea and spilled in some milk. He took a deep breath and turned around. “I’m all right,” he said. “Nothing’s broken. I just hadn’t thought enough about the reality of coming back. I’ll be all right.” He took a sip of tea. It was from his own mug and tasted better than he could imagine.

"But still, I can't imagine what you've been through,” John said. "I know what he was like."

“Yes, well, he didn’t work with particularly honorable people,” Sherlock said, moving to sit down in his chair. “But it’s done.”

“What happens now?”

“I don’t know -- Mycroft said it’s done, so I’ve decided to believe him,” Sherlock said. “As for right this moment, I don’t know what happens. As far as London is concerned, my calendar is empty for all eternity.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “But let’s just have it be us for the night.”

"Okay," John nodded.

Sherlock finished his tea. “You’ve not snapped at me yet,” he said. “That’s your thing, right?” he added with a smile.

"I don't snap at you," John said. "And if I did, well, now's not really the time."

“No, John,” Sherlock said. “Now is the time. I want to feel home . . . make me feel at home.” He dropped his empty mug on the floor. Then he bent down and untied his shoes, took off his socks, rolled them into two balls, and threw them at John. “Snap at me,” he said. “Like before.”

“Stop it," John said, getting up to move.

“No,” Sherlock pouted. He threw a pillow at John. “You’re not the boss of me.”

John threw the pillow back at him. "Stop it, Sherlock."

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock said, glancing around for something else to grab.

"I don't want to play," John said, his voice louder than he meant it to be. "Two hours ago I thought you were dead and now . . . it's not the same, Sherlock. This doesn’t . . . I need more time."

Sherlock looked at John. Of course, he was right -- it’d been ridiculous of Sherlock to expect them both to pretend, even for a moment. He put his head down, covering his face with his hands for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, trying to hold back tears.

John swallowed hard. "I -- I'm sorry," John said quietly. "I'm going to go . . . just out to get some food for us," he added.

Sherlock listened to John move over to get his coat. “Can I stay here while you’re gone?” he asked feebly, standing up.

John's heart ached, and he felt his eyes well. He looked away quickly. "This is your home. Of course you can stay," he said before he hurried out. He saw Mrs Hudson’s door open, but he rushed past and left the flat.

Mrs Hudson called John’s name, but he was gone. She slowly climbed the stairs and knocked before opening the door. Seeing him shocked her, of course, even though she’d spoken to Mycroft. She said his name and rushed over to give him a hug, squeezing him tight.

Sherlock winced a little, but squeezed her back.

“You wanted it to be easier, didn’t you?” she asked. “Coming back -- you were hoping everything would be the same.”

He didn’t say anything as he sat down in his chair again.

“Things aren’t the same, Sherlock,” she said softly. “Things have changed.”

“I know things have changed,” he said. “I know it’s different.”

She glanced at the door. “Is he coming back?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“He will,” she said. “It’s just a shock . . . it’s what he wanted but never thought he’d get.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say so said nothing.

“It’s what you wanted as well, I presume,” she said. “It’s a shock for you, isn’t it?”

He couldn’t look up at her. “I spent so much time remembering and now . . . the flat feels different and John’s gone off . . .”

“Time,” she said. “You both need time. Be patient with him and with yourself.”

“I’ve been waiting so long already . . .”

“I know,” she said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer.” She grabbed his mug from the floor and moved into the kitchen, rinsing it after turning on the kettle. “You need some sleep -- your room’s clean, the sheets are on the bed.”

“John said he was getting dinner,” Sherlock said.

Mrs Hudson made the tea and brought his cup over. “Yes, you should eat,” she said, wanting to comment on his weight loss but deciding not to. “Then a good night’s rest in your own bed, okay?” She stood for a second then said, “He’ll be back so I’ll go, but you know where I am if you need me.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said and then headed downstairs.

Sherlock took a long drink of tea and then closed his eyes. He was remembering and praying that one day John would forgive him and things would feel good again.


	7. Home

John walked the long way around, calling in the order so it would be ready when he finally got there. It was odd ordering for Sherlock again. He thought of Sherlock back at the flat and the games he tried playing. Didn't he realise nothing was the same? 

He didn't mean to get angry -- of course, he didn't want Sherlock to leave again. It was just all so much. He made his way around to the Chinese and got their order, heading back to the flat slowly.

Sherlock didn’t move from the chair. He’d been looking so forward to coming back to his home, his room, but he was a bit paralyzed by how big it was now. And how empty it felt being here on his own. While he was gone, he was alone but it was in strange places -- now it was in a place where he’d grown used to someone else being there. John being there. Sherlock inhaled and exhaled and reminded himself John would be back any minute.

John let himself in and climbed the steps slowly, moving into the flat. He looked over at Sherlock, still in his chair. "I have your usual," he said.

Sherlock looked over. “Thank you,” he said, standing up to get some plates. “For everything,” he added. There were no plates where he’d been expecting to find them -- had he forgotten? He opened a few cupboards until he found them.

John flushed when he saw Sherlock looking all over. "I moved them," he admitted.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. “They’re easier to reach here.” He lay the plates and silverware on the table. “Drink?”

 "Um, there's some wine if you want," he said.

“Do you want some?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Okay," he said. 

Sherlock found two glasses and poured a little into each. He set them on the table and then sat down. The chair hurt his back and legs. “Can we eat in the other room?” he asked, quickly standing up.

"What's the matter?" John asked.

“I’m just . . . sore,” Sherlock said, taking his plate and moving to his chair.

John looked after him for a moment before nodding and following him. "Are you okay?"

“Yes,” Sherlock said quickly then realised that lying was not good or necessary. “I am now -- I got checked when I got back. I’m all right, just . . . sore.”

John looked him over and nodded reluctantly. "Okay," he said. He sat in his own chair and started on his food, putting the news on for background noise.

They sat for a few moments as they ate. Then Sherlock said, “So . . . you’ve been doing cases . . .”

"Kind of," John admitted, shrugging his shoulders. 

“That’s good,” Sherlock said. He took another bite of food. “It surprised me but then it helped, I guess . . . I’m sorry for sending you on goose chases.”

"Just one, right?" he asked. If Sherlock had been behind every case he'd worked, John didn't know what he would do.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “The others were real . . . and solved by you.”

John watched him for a moment. "Honestly? Please don't lie."

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock said, looking over. “Everything now will be honestly.” He looked down for a minute and added, “Were they difficult? The cases, I mean.”

John shook his head. "I doubt you'd have even taken them but, you know. I'm not you," he said.

“No, you’re not, John,” Sherlock said. “Thank God for that.”

John glanced up and offered a small smile. "I don't think Mrs. Hudson could handle two of you."

“I doubt anyone could,” Sherlock said. “I know I couldn’t -- I need someone like you around. I thought it was all me, but it wasn’t as good on my own. I needed you.”

John ate a few bites. He took a deep breath and said, “Do you want to tell me where you were?”

“Mostly Eastern Europe,” Sherlock said. “To some not very nice places. They felt far away because they were.” He stood up and took his plate to the kitchen. “I think I might have an early night,” he said. He looked around stupidly for a moment. He hadn’t gone into his room; for some reason he almost felt afraid to, but he hoped it would all feel like home again soon.

John nodded. "You must be tired," he said. He stood and took his own plate to the sink, taking the time to wash up everything. "I'm going up as well. It's been a long day," he said. He looked over at Sherlock. "I'm really glad you're home, Sherlock."

“I am too, John,” Sherlock said. “Good night,” he said a little awkwardly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

"Good night," he said. For one second he took a step towards Sherlock's room before remembering he couldn't sleep there anymore. He turned for the stairs and hurried up to his own room.

Sherlock opened the door to his bedroom, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. He looked into the dark space, remembering every inch of it. He decided not to turn on the light -- just in case he did and everything looked different. He moved over and opened a drawer, reaching in and feeling around for a pair of pajamas. Thank god, they were there. That must mean John had left things as they were in there. He stripped off his clothes, slipped into his pajamas, and then climbed into his bed. He recognised the comfort. He pulled the blanket up, turned onto his side and sunk into the feeling. At least this was one place that felt just as he’d remembered -- one thing that hadn’t changed at all.

John crawled into bed and stared up at the ceiling. He wondered if Sherlock would know John had been in there, in his bed. He closed his eyes. He'd had so many dreams, nightmares, hopes . . .now Sherlock was really here and now neither of them knew how to act or what to say. 

He shifted in bed and turned to look at the empty side of the bed. Sherlock had been gone so long -- they shouldn't be apart anymore. He stood up and moved quietly down the stairs. He stopped in front of Sherlock's room and knocked softly.

Sherlock was listening to the sounds of the flat, remembering. He listened as John’s footsteps neared his room, as his knuckles tapped on his door. “John,” he said quietly, not turning on the bed. “Come in.”

John stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "I..." He didn't know what to say. He moved closer. "Can I get in?" 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I’d like you to.”

John pulled the covers back and climbed in. "I think we've been apart long enough," he said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t want it to happen . . . I hated every minute. I just didn’t feel like myself without you with me.”

John moved closer and reached out to touch Sherlock, closing his eyes. "I missed you."

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand. “I’ve missed you, John,” he said. “I love you.”

John tugged him close and pressed into him, hugging him tightly. "I love you too. I don't want to lose you again."

Sherlock reacted to the touch and shifted a bit.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John asked softly. Sherlock seemed to be trying to get out of his grasp.

“It’s just sore,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry.” He slid closer, tangling their legs a little. “Don’t move away.”

"What's sore? I want to help you," John said. 

“I’m just tired,” Sherlock said. Then he confessed, “It’s my back -- I got hurt.” He was glad the lights were off.

John stilled and swallowed hard. "Let me see," he said, shifting to get up. 

“It’s --“ Sherlock started, but stopped. He’d wanted John to be the one to look after him because John did that so well. He rolled over and stretched to turn on the lamp. “They’re healing . . . right?” he asked quietly.

John couldn't stop the gasp. Sherlock's back was torn apart and bruised. He shifted and got off the bed, leaving to get his medical bag. 

He carefully took the bandages off. "It'll sting a little," he said. He rubbed a cream in to keep them from getting infected, then used a numbing cream so the skin wouldn't be as sore. "How did this happen?" 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “Something happened . . . I don’t remember. But it meant I could come home.”

John used soft gauze and covered the marks. "Don't sleep on your back, okay?" He wiped his hands and packed everything away. He lay back down.

Sherlock snuggled up against John. “This is good,” he said quietly. “We should have done this before.”

"I know," John said. After a second of hesitation, he started petting Sherlock's hair. "There's a lot we should have done before. Said before." He took a deep breath. "We have time now."

Sherlock looked at John’s face in the dark. He moved his head and softly kissed John’s lips. “Like that?” he asked.

“Yes,” John said. “Like that.”

Sherlock dropped his head to John’s shoulder. “This is good,” he repeated.

John nodded, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Let's get some rest, okay?" 

“I missed sleeping here,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

"I used your bed sometimes," John admitted, closing his eyes and tucking in comfortably.

Sherlock nodded and then looked up. “For what?” he asked.

"Sleeping. I missed you so much, and I regretted what I never said so I'd say it here . . . hoping there was a way you’d hear it."

Sherlock smiled as he rested his head down again. “I thought of you at night as well,” he admitted. “I missed seeing your face, hearing your voice.”

John kissed the top of his head. He closed his eyes and felt properly relaxed for the first time in a long time.

Sherlock felt warm, good --better than he had in such a long time. “I’m home now,” he said. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning and every morning . . .”

John hummed softly. "I know."

“And you’ll be here with me. Because we belong together. It’s who we are,” Sherlock said.

“I know,” John repeated.

They were both alive and home. Together again.


End file.
